TheGreatChickening
Songster
- Jun 28, 2022
- 52
- 193
- 106
I do not mean to be offensive, but these poo manufacturing contemptible feathered cockroaches need to be out of my kitchen ASAP. They. Are. Vile.
One if them still has the vomitous affliction known as pasty butt. We finally tried the bird baptism recommended by a veteran chicken owner. I stupidly used one of my Tupperware dishes. I will never touch it again. Apparently, when you dunk a baby fowl into Dawn and water, the soapy solution operates as a fast-acting enema. My Dearest Love was holding the small atrocity at the time. And with the choice of desecrating my kitchen floors, desecrating his garbagey old tee shirt or desecrating my kitchen sink, the heretic I agreed to marry and who promised to do nice things to me until we die - THAT vagabond - chose to desecrate my kitchen sink.
"Are the shades of Pemberly to be thus polluted?" Well, Lady Catherine, apparently THEY ARE!!
Like khaki coloured spoiled milk on an explosive mission at light speed, engorged watery brown chunks shot out of that tiny little sphincter in rapid, gag inducing succession. And my glorious white sink was corrupted with each onslaught of chicken excrement.
Transgressions galore.
To be fair to the chicken, I was actively attempting to violate her nether regions with a soapy q-tip prior to the sacrilegious baptism-turned-egregious-bodily-evacuations. I suppose turn about is fair play.
I am so thoroughly disgusted and in such desperate need to get these abominations out of here that I went outside into whatever this heat index is and worked nearly two hours on the coop. I managed to literally cut 4 pieces of wood and screw them to their appropriate places.
Two. Hours. Four. Pieces.
I am equal parts triumphant at having accomplished SOMETHING and defeated at having accomplished so little.
If an apocalypse is coming, it is clear I will not survive.
Aside: the youngest homosapien recommends we rename the defective chick Pu Pu Platter. #dead
One if them still has the vomitous affliction known as pasty butt. We finally tried the bird baptism recommended by a veteran chicken owner. I stupidly used one of my Tupperware dishes. I will never touch it again. Apparently, when you dunk a baby fowl into Dawn and water, the soapy solution operates as a fast-acting enema. My Dearest Love was holding the small atrocity at the time. And with the choice of desecrating my kitchen floors, desecrating his garbagey old tee shirt or desecrating my kitchen sink, the heretic I agreed to marry and who promised to do nice things to me until we die - THAT vagabond - chose to desecrate my kitchen sink.
"Are the shades of Pemberly to be thus polluted?" Well, Lady Catherine, apparently THEY ARE!!
Like khaki coloured spoiled milk on an explosive mission at light speed, engorged watery brown chunks shot out of that tiny little sphincter in rapid, gag inducing succession. And my glorious white sink was corrupted with each onslaught of chicken excrement.
Transgressions galore.
To be fair to the chicken, I was actively attempting to violate her nether regions with a soapy q-tip prior to the sacrilegious baptism-turned-egregious-bodily-evacuations. I suppose turn about is fair play.
I am so thoroughly disgusted and in such desperate need to get these abominations out of here that I went outside into whatever this heat index is and worked nearly two hours on the coop. I managed to literally cut 4 pieces of wood and screw them to their appropriate places.
Two. Hours. Four. Pieces.
I am equal parts triumphant at having accomplished SOMETHING and defeated at having accomplished so little.
If an apocalypse is coming, it is clear I will not survive.
Aside: the youngest homosapien recommends we rename the defective chick Pu Pu Platter. #dead
